


Where the fuck is Marius?!

by Fancifullauren



Series: Hangover AU [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: AND OTHER FUN SHIT, Alcohol, Drugs, Everyone gets fucked up, Humor, M/M, Sex, Stupidity, let the chaos ensue, some more than others
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-12-03 05:26:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fancifullauren/pseuds/Fancifullauren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Marius's wedding day, and he is nowhere to be found, leaving his friends the task of locating him.  Unfortunately, Courfeyrac is missing something important, Joly's worst fears have come true, Combeferre has a new "friend," Jehan has found something noteworthy, Feuilly is bald, Enjolras is having some "difficulties," Grantaire has some questionable marks, Bossuet has ten pounds of god-knows-what in his possession, and Bahorel may or may not be dead.  (Spoiler alert, he's not dead.) </p><p>Inspired by The Hangover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the fuck is Marius?!

**Author's Note:**

> I REGRET NOTHING. Okay maybe a little. Modern AU, based out of Atlanta because that's the only city I know well.
> 
> Also, this will be excruciatingly difficult to read if your first language isn't English. Lots of Southern slang. Sorry!

Jean Prouvaire is slowly entering consciousness, and his body is starting to ache. With a groan, he stretches out his limbs in all directions and feels the hard, cool floor below him. He freezes. His eyes are still clamped closed, but he has no desire to open them as his brain begins to come alive: _What happened last night?_ He racks his memory, trying to pick out at least a piece of why he’s so uncomfortable, but it’s just a black wall that he can’t get around, no matter what angle he tries to come at it from. Slowly, he dares open his eyes. 

What he sees elicits a very feminine, very loud screech. 

There are corpses all around the tiny, filthy motel room. No, not corpses, as they are now slowly beginning to groan and move from the shock of his shriek. They’re his friends, he recognizes, as he looks to his left and sees that Courfeyrac, his neck covered in bruises, has himself wrapped into the fetal position beside him. He looks down. _Why am I in a dress?_ He wonders, before his train of thought is cut off by a shout. 

“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?” Feuilly bellows at the top of his lungs. Jehan’s head snaps up. He’s missing his usual worker’s cap, but that’s not what’s most noticeable: he’s bald. Jehan stifles a giggle despite the circumstances. 

“Hmm?” Enjolras murmurs, slowly coming to, “what’s going on?” 

Jehan’s eyes go wide in horror as he realizes his friend’s pitiful state. The usually dignified leader is completely naked, save for fuzzy handcuffs attached to his left wrist, and an unknown cloudy liquid covering up half his face; but that’s not the most notable part of his appearance. He’s coated from the waist-down in splotches of shit. 

“Oh my god, Enjolras,” he whispers in repulsion. 

“Help me!” Comes a shout. He turns to see a kneeling Joly, dressed in a disheveled tuxedo and his face bearing a look of sheer terror, before he violently throws up on the ground in front of him. Combeferre pulls a tissue out of his pocket and starts to wipe up Joly’s face. “I haven’t thrown up since the fourth grade…” he mutters, shaking. Combeferre coos softly, trying to calm him down. 

A pounding is making its way into Jehan’s head when suddenly, an arm grabs his shoulder and pulls him down. “I am going to open my eyes, Jehan, but first, can you tell me if I’m missing a finger on my left hand?” Courfeyrac says in a low voice. He looks down and gasps. 

“Yes,” he whispers in return, shocked. 

“Shit. I thought so.” His eyelids snap open and look Jehan in the face. “Did we have sex last night?” 

A wave of horror overtakes poor Prouvaire as the memory of sloppily making out with Courfeyrac in the back of a strange car hits him like a freight train. “Oh my god,” he says. He ties to think of what happened after, but the black wall is back, blocking him from further exploration. “I… I don’t think so. I mean, I’m not sore… Well, not there, I mean,” he stutters. 

“I am,” Courfeyrac states confidently with a hint of a smirk. His beautiful brown eyes pry into Jehan’s. He only wishes he could remember finally, after months of being in love with the flirt, consummating his love. His mind goes blank when Courfeyrac surges forward to kiss him. 

The kiss had to be broken, however, as another shout shakes the small room. “HOLY MOTHER OF FUCK.” It is Bossuet, leaning over a dead body. “Bahorel! He’s dead!” He exclaims, mortified. Combeferre instantly springs away from a crying Joly to puts his hand on Bahorel’s neck. 

“He’s fine, calm down.” Combeferre snaps, “He’s got a pulse.” 

“Would someone care to explain what the fuck went down last night?” Demands an angry Grantaire. He, at least, is dressed in a plain grey tee and jeans, the same as what he was wearing when they departed from Valjean’s house the night before; though his jeans are pooled at his feet and his shirt is wrapped around his head. 

“Hell if I know,” Feuilly retorts, scratching his shiny head. 

Grantaire looks down and hastily yanks his pants up before pulling off his shirt and shoving it at Enjolras, huddled up in a ball in order to preserve some of his modesty. He then goes to find a blanket for him and uses it to try to clean off the various substances that are making the room smell awful.

“Guys, I think I’m dying,” states a panicked Joly. He falls to his hands and knees and heaves until there is nothing left in his stomach. Jehan tries to quell the tumultuous feeling in his gut. 

“Alright, everyone, calm your shit,” comes the voice of reason from Courfeyrac, “Headcount. Do we have everyone? Jehan?” 

“Present.” 

“Bossuet?” 

“Here.” 

“Enjolras?” 

“He’s here.” Grantaire answered for him. 

“Grantaire?” 

“Yep.” 

“Feuilly?” 

“Here.”

“Bahorel?” 

“I’ve got him;” Combeferre says, “I’m here, too.” 

“Joly?” 

_“Leave me to die!”_

“Marius?” 

No response. 

“Marius?” Courfeyrac prompts again, beginning to get worried. Everyone started swiveling their heads around, seeing if they could find the groom in the tiny bedroom. He tries to remain calm, but it is in vain. “Where. The fuck. Is the Groom?” He demands angrily, “Where the hell did he go?” Joly starts to gag again when he catches sight of Courfeyrac’s four-fingered hand waving in the air. 

“Relax, everyone, we’re not going to get anywhere by panicking,” indicated the ever-reasonable Combeferre. “Who remembers anything from last night?” 

Silence.

“Jehan and I had sex,” Courfeyrac offers, breaking the awkwardness. His blond partner smacks his forehead.

More silence ensues. 

“In the back of a strange car,” Jehan finally pipes up. 

Combeferre nods thoughtfully. Abruptly, the door to the room swings open, a burst of light floods into the room, and standing there is a dark-skinned man dressed in a black leather jacket, baggy jeans, and flashy sneakers.

He grins. “Well, well, well, look who’s up!” Something about his sneer is wicked, and it’s definitely putting the men off, along with his extremely deep voice. “If it isn’t ma’ favorite partiers! To be honest, though, I didn’t think summa y’all would make it through tha’ night.” He glances at Bahorel. 

“He’s fine,” snaps an angry Enjolras. He was now wearing some red sweat pants. “Now could you kindly tell us where the hell we are?” 

Tall, dark, and handsome just chuckles. “I’m surprised you can still speak, loverboy; I’d a-thought yo’ jaw would be dislocated, what with how hard you were going down on ya’ boyfrien’ here.” 

Grantaire looks like a deer in headlights and Enjolras is turning a rather alarming shade of pink. 

“Irrelevant, though; I’m sure all y’all is wonderin’ why ya here. Wouldn’t I like to know! Hell, if I knew where you crazy bastards worked up such an taste for ma’ shit, I’d be sendin’ people there night n’ day,” exclaims the dark man. 

“Excuse me,” struggles an increasingly furious Enjolras, “but what exactly do you mean by _your shit_?” 

“Roofies!” He is way too happy about this. “You ratchet-ass mothafuckahs wanted roofies! Y’all be batshit insane.” 

“Why in the world would we…” Combeferre starts. 

“Hell if I know!” Bellows the man, “The name’s Montparnasse, by the way. I doubt any-a you shitheads remember me.”

“Okay, Montparnasse, just tell us everything you know about last night.” Enjolras is fuming at this point. 

“Not much, to be honest. Ya boy R found me in tha’ club; said he wanted the craziest shit I got. I’s just fuckin’ with ‘im; told ‘im ‘e betta try somma tha’ new shit I got last week. Ain’t no way I thought ‘e’d take me seriously.” Montparnasse let out another laugh. “So I locked y’all’s asses in here, ya know, so y’wouldn’t do somethin’ stupid an’ get arrested. I be takin’ good care-a ma’ customers.” 

“That’s all you know?” Feuilly shouts angrily. 

“Hush!” Enjolras snaps, “What club did you find us in?” 

“Y’all was up in The Ultraviolet, down Briarcliff. Lucky I’s there, or Scarface ova’ there woulda landed hisself in a fo’-piece suit. Shit, he sellin’ wolf tickets like he was gittin’ paid fo’it.” He scowls at Bahorel. 

Jehan finally chimes in. “Well thank you, Mr. Montparnasse, sir. You’ve been very helpful. But I think it’s time we get on our way…” 

He gives a quick _éclat de rire_. “I don’ thank so, ya’ faggot. While you’s busy witcha twink, mah’ brotha’s packin’ somethin’ else inna suitcase. You on tha’ shit watch.” 

All the eyes turn to Bossuet. “Oh…” he says, “um, is there a less… unpleasant way of… um… extracting… what you need?” He stutters, which is completely unlike him, despite his clumsy ways. 

Grantaire whips around to glare at Montparnasse. “Why the HELL did you shove drugs up Bossuet’s ass?!” He practically screams, the veins in his forehead making themselves apparent. 

It seems as if everyone but Grantaire, Bossuet, and Montparnasse are lost. 

“Cain’t trust whitey, an’ tha’ cops was on us. Now bend over.” 

And thus the particularly uncomfortable process of removing a large baggie of crack cocaine from Bossuet’s anal cavity is performed. 

“You boys is ridiculous. Y’all needa move ya’asses befo’ I come back. ‘Parnasse out,” he says, and with that, he is gone. 

More silence. 

“Okay,” Combeferre says finally, “The Ultraviolet. That’s where we should start our search for Marius.” 

“Agreed.” Enjolras states. 

\-----

“AND STAY OUT!” Cries a hysterical female voice. A trashy blond stumbles out of the door. 

“Yeah?” She shouts, “Well I didn’t want to be in your stupid club anyway!” Turning to see the group of nine boys approaching her, she gasps. 

“Excuse me, miss, but would you by any chance—“ Combeferre starts, but he is cut off by her lips on his. He is too shocked to push her away, but after a particularly sloppy kiss, she leans back on her own. 

“Combeferre, my darling! I missed you so much.” A smile lights up her face, covered in smeared makeup. “I was beginning to think you were having second thoughts.” 

He furrowed his brow. “What exactly…” 

“Thank God you came back, I was just thinking about how horrible my life would have been without you! You’ve changed me, dear, you really have. And to think, just yesterday I was so low! And now look at me.” She gushes in her southern drawl. 

Combeferre shakes his head slowly. “I’m sorry… who are you?” 

She pouts. “’Ferre, baby, it’s me. It’s your Brittany. This isn’t funny, sugar.” 

“Trust me, umm… Brittany… I know for a fact that this isn’t funny.” He clarifies awkwardly. 

“Oh, drat. You actually don’t remember me, do you?” She whines, running a hand through her disheveled blond locks. 

“Brittany, sweetheart, don’t you worry! Courfeyrac’s here, I’ll make it better,” Courfeyrac says, putting his hand on her shoulder comfortingly. Leave it to him to try to be sweet on a girl at a time like this.

“And here I was, thinking that I was gonna get to start anew, a brand new life with the man of my dreams…” She ignores the flirt completely. 

“Hey Brittany, do you think you could tell us what happened last night?” He tries to take a more pragmatic approach. 

“Oh, Combeferre, my wonderful angel, my saving grace! I can’t believe you don’t remember me after all we’ve been through!” She dramatically swoons. 

“I’m sorry, but what exactly have we been through?” He asks, nervous. 

She shoos Courfeyrac away. “Baby, we got engaged.” 

And then Combeferre’s mind starts to swim, and his body sways. Bossuet has to all but lunge towards him to catch him when he loses consciousness. 

“Oh, dear me, look at this mess. This is messier than when Angel-boy thought those laxatives were brownies.” 

 

_“Come on, it’ll be hilarious!” Combeferre giggled, pushing the chocolate laxatives into Grantaire’s hand. “Just give them to him! Think of how funny it’ll be when the perfect leader can’t even leave the bathroom!”_

_“Dude, you are fucking_ wasted _. No way am I doing that.” Grantaire retorted._

_“Oh, baby, you’re devious!” Said Brittany from her place wrapped in Combeferre’s arm._

_“Where did you even get these?” Demanded Grantaire, but he decided it was best that he stop talking when his usually reserved friend started a disgustingly graphic make out session with his new girlfriend. He turned around, embarrassed, when their hands started wandering up each other’s shirts._

_Meanwhile, Bahorel was picking a fight with a different bartender._

_“Oh, brownies!” Enjolras exclaimed, walking up to Grantaire, taking the laxatives, and swallowing them whole._

_“You are so fucked up.”_

_“I’ve had half as much to drink as you!”_

_“Fucking lightweight.”_

_“What’s that, ‘Taire? You want to be fucking a lightweight?”_

_“Oh my God, Enjolras, if you weren’t shitfaced right now, I would fuck you over the goddamn bar.” Grantaire sighed, resentful of the fact that the only time the marble statue would pay any attention to him was when he was completely out of his mind._

_“Clearly you’re too sober then. Another round for the cynic!” Shouted an exuberant Enjolras. The bartender poured him an ample Long Island Iced Tea, which Grantaire swallowed in under a minute._

_Grantaire whispered flirty nothings into Enjolras’s neck between kisses._

_“Ay, yo, curly boy. You want somethin’ stronger n’ ‘at poison? I thank yo’ frien ova there’s gonna need somethin’ a-fo’ ‘e clocks dat bartender.” Rumbled a deep voice in his ear. He turned around._

_“Hell yeah!” Grantaire shouted, “Give me the strongest shit you’ve got!” He slipped the entire contents of his wallet into the shady man’s front pocket._

_“A’ight, but y’all gon’ be in fo’ it!”_

_The general noise of the bar silenced immediately, save the blaring music, when Combeferre got down on one knee._

_“Brittany, my perfect flower, will you marry me?”_

_“Yes!”_

_Everyone clapped._

_Courfeyrac pretended to vomit. “Disgusting,” he told Jehan, “I’ll never get married.”_

_“You’re at a bachelor party! Don’t talk like that.” He replied scornfully._

_“Really, though! Marriage is something of the weak. They unite their souls or whatever, but what for? To find true love? Bullshit, love is just something you say to get in someone’s pants.”_

_Jehan looked as if he was going to punch him in the face. He took Courfeyrac’s hand in his own. “Well, what do you need this for, then?” He shouted, squeezing his left ring finger._

_Courfeyrac burst into laughter. “You’re right! I might as well just slice it off!”_

_Jehan’s face contorted in amusement as he began to giggle. “Imagine that!”_

_“Recite to me poetry, you romantic fool!”  
_

“Shit.” Enjolras says. 

“Literally.” Bahorel can’t help but add. Enjolras punches him in the stomach. 

 

Tears are gathering in Brittany’s eyes. “It was too good to be true, wasn’t it, Combeferre?” 

He tries to comfort her with a “Look, Brittany, I’m so sorry,” but to no avail. She’s crying full-out. 

“Aw, you poor baby!” Jehan coos, walking up to the sniffling woman and taking her in his thin arms. “There, there, love, it’s okay.” 

She pushes him away instantly. “Get away from me, you pervert!” 

Jehan is taken aback. “Jehan?” Feuilly asks, “A pervert?” 

“This freak recited some poetic filth to me yesterday! ‘ _I will sodomize and face-fuck you_?’ Is that what you use to pick up women?” She demands angrily. 

“Catullus 16…” Jehan whispers, horrified with himself. 

Courfeyrac laughs. “Apparently your dirty poetry worked for me.” 

Enjolras cuts him off. “Listen, lady, I know you’re going through a crisis and everything, but did you happen to see another guy with us? About 5’10, handsome, looks like a puppy?” 

She shakes her head. “No,” she chokes out, “but I do remember you talking about him. Something about a homeless person? I don’t know. Get out of here, all of you. Get out of my sight.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Combeferre pleads, but the group just starts walking. 

“Just leave.” 

\--

They find themselves in a greasy spoon down the street. Feuilly, fortunately, still has a credit card, so they have a way of paying. They eat quietly until a ringing breaks the silence. 

It’s Marius’s phone. 

“It’s Cosette,” says Enjolras stoically. 

“Ignore it,” Joly replies instantly. 

The ringing stops. They stare at the phone on the table. It starts up again.


End file.
